


Strange thing about ownership.

by Michaelssw0rd



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Dom Harold Finch, I don't even know what even., Light Dom/sub, M/M, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Behavior, Praise Kink, Sub John Reese
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-08
Updated: 2016-12-08
Packaged: 2018-09-07 07:48:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8789605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Michaelssw0rd/pseuds/Michaelssw0rd
Summary: John had to use his 'charms' to get information out of a someone. They do that sometimes, because even though John belongs to Harold, sometimes things like this are unavoidable- John is an attractive man after all, and this is one of the weapons in his arsenal. Back at the safe house, Harold reasserts his ownership. Not that he would ever need to, but he likes to be sure. And John definitely appreciates it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Because xlostlenore tagged me in this fic prompt. http://xlostlenore.tumblr.com/post/154199291598/comtessedebussy-oh-look-its-john-being-a  
> (and just how many of my fics are you responsible for already? Are you proud of yourself?)
> 
> This is pure porn okay. Be warned. Also i am a little bit (read a lot) ashamed of myself rn.

Reese stood in front of the brown door of the safe house, took in a deep breath, and held it in. The fragrance of a women’s perfume drifted up his nostrils with it, and he had to try very hard not to wince. It reminded him of what had happened, and made him think of the consequences… with dread or eager anticipation? He could not have said.

They had needed information from one Mrs. Irwin, and the best way was to talk to her at the club she frequented, get a few drinks in her, and hope she would be more willing to talk. And she was: John had gotten all the required information and more out of her. It had cost a little more than drinks though. Mrs. Irwin was _handsy_.

He knocked with heart in his throat and almost immediately the door opened. It was like Harold was standing on the other side waiting. John felt a weird jolt of apprehension mixed with heat pass through him at the idea- Harold, waiting for John to ask permission to enter.

Finch gave him a once over from head to toe, and with a sharp nod, he turned around and walked into the living room. John followed.

“Harold, I…”

“Strip.” The order came without a preamble. Before John knew it, his fingers were at the buttons of his shirt- a reflex.

“I am sorry.” He said, while slipping out of his leather jacket.

Harold turned around at that, his eyebrows raised.

“Sorry?” He tilted his head, curious, “Whatever for?”

John’s hands froze, and he looked up with wide eyes, not knowing how to phrase it. “Uh…” He tried, but to no avail.

“Do you, in fact, mean to apologize for the fact that you let someone else touch what is mine?” Harold asked, confused. John’s breath hitched at the word _mine_ , while at the same time guilt gnawed at him.

He nodded.

“Why ever would you do that? I distinctly remember giving you the permission to go ahead. It was necessary.” Easy as that, he dismissed John’s insecurities. “Now, if you were apologizing for dawdling when I ordered you to strip… that’s something I would consider more appropriate.”

John’s stationary limbs started moving all of a sudden, in a hurry to obey the command, gentling only at a murmured, ‘ _slower_.’

“You see Mr. Reese,” Harold talked, as he continued to observe John taking off his clothes, trying for finesse because he knew his Dom appreciated it, “you’re an attractive man. I know it. You know it, and so does every person who ever looks at you.” His appreciative gaze and matter of fact voice was doing things to John’s insides he could not name.

“What’s the phrase people use these days? Sex on legs? It indeed is fitting. So you see, it’s not a surprise that anyone who sees you, wants you.” Harold smirked, all smug at his own hipness. John got rid of his shirt, throwing it to a side and started working on his belt buckle.

“But what they don’t know is… they can’t have you. Can they?” When Finch paused, John realized that it wasn’t a rhetorical question.

“No.”

“No. That’s right. And why is that?” Harold moved a little closer and his fingers ghosted over his naked chest, not touching, but the static feeling like jolts of current going down his body, pooling where all of his blood had.

“Because,” he had to swallow the lump in his throat, “because I am yours.” He stated, bowing his head. He was rewarded by a flick to his nipple, just there and gone, and John gasped.

“Yes you are.” Harold softened for just a second, the awe in his voice palpable, and then composed himself again, “You know the strange thing about ownership though?” He asked again, but didn’t wait for reply this time, “Ownership means the authority to lend your possessions. That’s what happened tonight. It doesn’t make you any less mine.” John snapped his gaze up to meet Harold’s and the reassurance and the fierce possessiveness in them made his knees weak.

To hide from the intense gaze, he bent and took off his pants, along with his briefs, staying down till he got rid of his socks too. When he stood up again, he clasped his hands at his back, standing with his head bowed and waiting for Harold’s next order.

He heard a chuckle, followed by a, “someone’s excited.” His cheeks flamed, because his cock was indeed standing erect against his abdomen.

“Tell me Mr. Reese,” there was a wickedness to the tone, and Reese’s breathing sped up upon hearing it, “were you aroused when you danced with Mrs. Irwin.”

_Oh no._

John wanted to lie, he wanted to shake his head, but he knew better than to do that. Harold would know. He always knew. So he just bent his head even lower, closed his eyes tightly and gave a barely there nod. He hoped Harold won’t ask further.

“Hmm. I am curious. Why was that? Were you attracted to her?” Harold mused, and this time John didn’t even have to wonder before shaking his head sharply.

“Why then?”

Harold knew why, John knew that he knew, but he wanted to hear him say it. “Because you told me…” John knew his face was flushed red with embarrassment, but not giving an answer would disappoint Finch, and that was the last thing he wanted. “You said…” Words weren’t easy, but Harold’s quiet order of ‘ _go on’_ helped, “When she asked me to the dance floor, you said that I should remember I was yours. That she was just borrowing me. That every touch of hers was yours by proxy.” He admitted, hoarsely.

“And that turns you on?” Inquisitive again, opening up every locked door of John’s psych without resistance.

“Yes.” He admitted, miserably.

Next thing John felt were fingers in his hair, tugging harshly, the sharp pull making his body sing, and bringing his head down. Harold’s lips clashed with his, hard and demanding, and John melted into the kiss, letting his Dom take what he wanted, and replace the sickly sweet taste of Mrs. Irwin’s gloss with his own.

It ended far too quickly, and Harold mused nonchalantly, “Your lips taste of her.”

John jerked back as if stung, tears prickling at his eyes. “Sorry.”

“I told you, you don’t need to apologize for this. In actuality, you were doing _me_ a service. And I can see you didn’t like doing that very much. Thank you.” This time, his eyelids weren’t enough to keep the tears in, and a couple of them escaped, trickling down his face. His hands still clasped behind his back, he wanted to wipe them away, to hide them from Harold, but he won’t do it. There were no secrets between them… not where this aspect of their relationship was concerned.

“Thank you. You are amazing. More amazing than I deserve. So good.” He kept praising, and tears kept trickling out of John’s eyes, down his cheek. Harold’s hand came up to cup his face, his thumbs stroking away the tears, and he stood on his tiptoes to kiss John’s lips again, soft, so soft, and gentle.

“Now…” He said, moving away but his hands still on John’s face, making him meet his eyes which were endlessly kind. “It’s your turn. What do you want?”

 _What did he want? Why was Harold asking that?_ John’s face was probably as blank as his mind was. In this, Harold was in charge. He counted on him to make the decisions, to take control. John did not want to think about what he wanted because he wanted everything. _Everything._

Harold seemed to have clued in to his problem because he stroke his cheek again, and said, “Do you want me to fuck you?” The word _fuck_ , crude and vulgar, from Harold’s civilized mouth made his dick spasm. He was going to nod, because yes, god yes; but Harold exerted some pressure on his face, stopping him, indicating he wasn’t done yet. “Or do you want me to suck you off? Or would you rather be the one doing the sucking?”

Why was Finch doing this to him? Didn’t he say he had been good? Why torture him with these tantalizing images and make him choose…

“… or would you rather, I chase away every touch of someone who wasn’t me? Caress you where her fingers lingered, kiss you where her hands strayed, and bite you, leave marks, everywhere her lips dare touch what’s mine. Everywhere she tainted you, and nowhere else.” Harold finished, and there really wasn’t a choice… there couldn’t be any choice.

“Please.” John begged, “Please, please… please.”

“Oh my Dear. Of course.” Harold promised, but he didn’t start touching him, didn’t move his hands away from his face, and didn’t let John break his gaze. “But you will have to help me. You see, I don’t know where she touched you.”

His knees were weak, his erection was throbbing, and his heart was aching. Harold was merciless. He took away one of his hands and the other rubbed his lower lip lightly, saying, “I think it’s fair to say she touched you here.” And then he took his mouth in a kiss that was harsh, more teeth than tongue, leaving his lips stinging.

He traced his jaw, slowly, asking, ‘ _here?_ ’ and lapping at his skin when John nodded, down his torso, _‘here?here?here?_ ’ inch by inch, ‘what about here?’ at his nipple and then biting it till John moaned, and down until he reached his erect cock.

Finch moved back and watch it twitch under his gaze, and then he looked up at John, smiling mischievously. His stretched until it hovered just above where John ached for a touch, and asked sweetly, “Did she touch you here John?”

John cursed quietly, closing his eyes for a second and breathing harshly.

“I am afraid I didn’t catch that.”

“Does grinding on it during dance count?” John pleaded hopefully, and Harold’s eyes twinkled. He seemed to think about it, looking thoughtful. Then quick as a snake, he made a hollow fist out of his hand and gave his erection two long pumps, making John emit a long whine and thrust his hips forward for more… more.

“I guess it does.” Harold said, taking away his hand to trace his hipbone.

“I wonder,” Harold started, suddenly fascinated, and then both of his hands went to his ass, grabbing his cheeks, and saying, “She did do this right?” and thank heavens, she had.

“… but,” and there it was, the hint of something that would not end up being good for John. He felt Harold’s one hand move closer to his cleft, the other pulling the cheek to expose him. John had to close his eyes, knowing what a contrast they made: Finch fully clothed, and John naked, his hands at his back, his spine straight, and now his hole exposed.

A finger dipped in, and traced his pucker feather-light. He tried to move into the touch but it moved away with him, barely there, tantalizing, and then Harold asked, evil to the very core… “She didn’t touch you here did she?”

John broke down. A sob emitted from his throat and he whimpered, “Please. Please Harold. Please.”

Suddenly, all touch was withdrawn from him, and John stood gasping at the sudden loss of the warmth. Finch tsked,

“Mr. Reese. I did give you a choice. You choose this.” He chastised. John inhaled shakily and wanted to sink into the ground.

“Remember John.” Harold’s voice was stern, just the way John liked, “This is about me reminding you who this body belongs to. In case you forget.”

“Never. Never.” John promised.

“I know you believe so… but it’s my job to make sure.” Harold stated, and John felt relieved that he took that responsibility away from him. “Just like it’s your job to just feel what I give you. Can you do that?” When put like this, it wasn’t even a question.

“Yes.” He swore.

“Very good.” Harold’s touch returned, to his shoulders, wide hands sweeping across his muscles, and then pushing down lightly, “Would you kneel for me?” He requested, as if he ever needed to. As if John would ever refuse.

In reply, John let his weight sink lower, his knees bend, and hit the floor while his hands remained where they were supposed to, clasped tightly and away. Harold’s fingers massaged his scalp lightly, and ran through his hair. Something settled inside John. He rested his head against the side of Harold’s thigh and closed his eyes.

He was where he belonged.

**Author's Note:**

> *Hides face and runs away*


End file.
